Putting Out the Flames
by Ash to Dust
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Sherlock receives a message from an old acquaintance that leads John to discover more about the detective's eccentric past, meanwhile the remains of Moriarty's network are regrouping. Eventual Sherlock/John/OC platonic relationship.
1. Learning and Burning

**I was looking over some of my old stories and after series 2 of Sherlock had a lot of new ideas, so I've decided to rewrite this one because I now know where to take it! I've left the old story up for now. Reviews welcome.**

Putting Out the Flame

Part 1: Learning and Burning

Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of man to have many friends, but those he did he kept close. It had taken John Watson almost five years of living with him to understand this and for three of those Sherlock had been dead. After those years, that John had termed the 'hiatus', it had been perhaps even harder than the grieving to readjust to having his best friend around. For weeks he had ignored him, refused to talk, being angry but when he had realised that Sherlock's health was slowly getting worse, his reclusive behaviour increasing, that he had to accept that Sherlock had it just as bad as him, in fact he'd probably had it worse.

Forgiveness hadn't been easy. There had been many days when John had seriously considered leaving for good but something had stopped him, it might have been Sherlock's broken looks, it might have been the little voice in the back of his head going _he did it all for you, he suffered to_ so John had accepted and slowly things had returned to normal. Sherlock started eating, talking and eventually taking on cases. But John knew that the Sherlock he had known was gone, the man in front of him was different, he had nightmares, he was jumpy around unknown situations and he did everything he could to avoid putting John or Gregory Lestrade in any form of danger.

Of course, Sherlock had paid for it. In their latest case Sherlock had taken a bullet for him without any thought for himself, immobilising his shoulder for weeks but saying that John's friendship and continuing existence was worth the wounds. Sherlock had also become more open, talking about his childhood (not amazing), Mycroft (surprisingly affectionately) and the few friends he had and their importance to him.

So John Watson couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in disbelief and hurt as he learned of the existence of Sherlock's first true friend. It had been another of Sherlock's sulky days, he had spent most of the morning curled up on the sofa in his pyjamas, attempting to draw an intricate pattern up his arm in felt tip pen left-handed, having carefully removed his right from the sling (it turned out Sherlock was also quite an artist), because with his arm out of action Lestrade had effectively banned him from cases until he felt Sherlock was fit enough to return.

"Usually you've complained by this point." Sherlock's confused voice broke John's train of thought, he glanced across at the detective and the ink pattern that now decorated his skin. Clearly he had been expecting John to comment on his sudden change in behaviour.

"When do I ever complain?" John replied thinking of all the times Sherlock had done much worse and he hadn't commented, "I'm just glad you haven't used permanent marker. It would have taken ages to get it off."

That was when Sherlock's phone decided to vibrate itself off the table. With a loud, dramatic sigh Sherlock flung the pen down and stretched, lifting himself off the sofa, leaving the sling behind (again) and carefully catching his mobile before it hit the floor. John glanced up, expecting it to be a text from Lestrade about a cold case but found instead a soft, almost tender smile adorning Sherlock's face as he re-read the text. Whilst the younger man had become more open with his emotions John was surprised at such an open display of affection.

"What?" Sherlock asked innocently, phone held limp in one hand, as he caught John's curious expression.

"Care to share?" John asked simply, inwardly chuckling at his rhyming ability. Sherlock's expression fell into one of exasperation and with a grunt of mild annoyance he threw the phone in John's general direction. Thankfully John's reflexes were still 'military quick' and whilst Sherlock's aim was off he caught the phone before it hit the floor or broke something.

_Free this evening?_

_Round mine, bring violin, at 7._

_SL_

"Who's SL?" John asked the moment he finished reading the disappointingly uninteresting message.

"An old friend" Sherlock replied carelessly from his place on the sofa. He had gone back to his drawing now that John had satisfied his curiosity and knew the contents of his inbox.

"A _friend_?" John replied incredulously just as Sherlock had done after he had met Mycroft so many months ago because John was pretty sure that he knew all of Sherlock's friends (all three of them) and none of them had those initials, so the possibility of Sherlock having a friend he hadn't previously mentioned _hurt_.

"Well, an enemy," Sherlock conceded, "and a good one at that, one of only two people to ever outsmart me." Sherlock gave up on his drawing and threw the pen at the table, giving John his fully attention because he knew the subject wouldn't be left alone and after leaving John in the dark for three years and then having to deal with the consequences John deserved some answers. Even now he couldn't believe John had forgiven him and in his most vulnerable moments often found himself watching the doctor, afraid he would up and leave.

In the silence the pen rolled gently across the table top, wobbled on the edge for a few moments and then fell off, the quiet clatter sounding extraordinary loud. Neither man moved to pick it up, there wasn't any point, it didn't make much of a difference to the already cluttered floor. After a few moments Sherlock realised that John was expecting him to explain without any prompting so hesitantly he began.

"You already know who one of them was." Sherlock stated, hoping John would give him some indication of how to continue, this sort of conversation was not his _forte_.

"Irene Adler." John acknowledged, apparently recognising Sherlock's internal struggle. "I assume you met the other before all this?" John gestured to the flat and Sherlock found himself nodding.

"I was young, naïve. I'd just left school and had decided to explore London, and because of my stupidity I got lost on the first night. Calling Mycroft was not an option, it would have been far too shameful, I'd never live it down so I was just about to find somewhere to sleep for the night, and a cheap hotel would do, when someone called out to me from the end of the street."

"_Are you lost? Oh, new around here. Don't worry, happens to a lot of people when they first arrive, it's a bit bigger than they first thought, anyway, where are you heading?"_

"I had to trust this stranger because they seemed to know the area pretty well, I was lost, tired and pretty much out of cash."

"_Where am I?"_

"_You're just off Hanbury Street."_

"_Oh, I was aiming for Fournier Street."_

"_Well you aren't that far off. Fournier Street, famous for Jack the Ripper connections if I remember correctly, are you interested in that kind of thing?"_

"They directed me to Fournier Street and pick pocketed me whist they did it, not that I had much on me, at least they left enough cash for me to afford a bed for the night. By the time I realised they'd gone. It took me two weeks to track them down and we've been in touch ever since."

"They pick pocketed you?" Sherlock nodded and John could have sworn that the amateur detective was actually _blushing_, well the idea of Sherlock falling for that seemed incredulous, no matter how young he'd been. After a few moments it became clear Sherlock was unwilling to continue so instead John tried to employ his methods and reach his own conclusion.

"A girl." He said eventually, hoping that he was right. Sherlock raised an eyebrow that said _and how did you come to that conclusion_ without giving anything away. "You wouldn't trust a man out late at night, especially when you're at that age. I would imagine that, having discovered something you were interested in she distracted you with talk on the subject and just took it weren't you weren't paying attention, with your confusion and generally displacement it wouldn't have been hard." Sherlock gazed at him for a long moment before finally nodding.

"When done John, you were right on all accounts." John allowed himself a moment of astonished pride, "You're developing deductive abilities of your own." Sherlock sounded almost proud before sighing and giving in to John's silent demands for information. "Her name's Sophie Lawson, well her real name's Sophia but she hates it, says that sounds too Russian. She's a pianist and singer, but also has an interest in detecting, for a while she even worked with me." John couldn't help but wonder that there must be something more to her than that to be able to put up with Sherlock on a day to day basis.

"So how did she beat you then? Surely pick-pocketing doesn't make her an enemy?" Sherlock smiled again, shocking John with his openness.

"Sophie faked her own death, very well in fact, during a particularly troubling case concerning a drug ring. I only discovered that she was alive when she turned up on my doorstep four years later." For a moment the pair fell into a comfortable, contemplative silence. Then apparently reaching a decision about the invitation Sherlock got up and headed for the shower, paused and the hallway and stuck his head back round the door.

"Shall I assume you're going?" John asked, attempting to deduce Sherlock's behaviour.

"Of course, I also assume you would like to meet her."

"Naturally." John replied with a slight smile. It seemed that Sherlock was slowly getting the hang of this emotional stuff and was able to predict John's wants and needs and act upon them.

"Send her a text would you?" Sherlock asked and disappeared behind the door, no change there though, John still acted as Sherlock's personal slave at times, even if he did do it more politely. The changes in Sherlock had been astonishing in the past year and his friendship with John had developed into what John could describe as a platonic relationship. It turned out Sherlock craved love and attention as much as anyone else, especially having being deprived of friendly human contact for nearly three years and John would not be the one to deny him the affection he deserved. With a wry smile John glanced at the phone on the table, leant over picked it up and sent a text.

_Will be there at 7,_

_Bringing violin and flatmate,_

_SH._

Sophie Lawson, ironically, lived on Hanbury Street. As the taxi drew up (Sherlock paid, that was another recent change) John first impression was that the house didn't seem that impressive, certainly not enough for the occupant to gain the attention of Sherlock Holmes, with the number 73A painted on the door beginning to fade against peeling paint. Undeterred Sherlock, now freshly showered and dressed properly reached up to knock but the door creaked opened before his fist could make contact.

Again John's first impression did not overwhelm him in any way. Sophie Lawson looked perfectly normal, she was reasonably tall, definitely over average height, but still looked quite small against Sherlock's lean frame. She was also quite slim, although no way near Sherlock's stick thin figure, at least her weight looked healthy, she probably did some form of physical exercise. John would have placed her age at about 28, although he knew looks could be deceiving, Sherlock looked ten years younger than he actually was. Her hair was a plain, slightly wavy, mousy brown but it was her eyes that set her apart. Gray and piercing, like Sherlock's they seemed to look into him. Sophie also seemed to give off an aura of something mysterious, it made John immediately distrustful.

"Good evening Sherlock, it's good to see you and you must be Doctor John Watson." Shaking his head out of his limited deductions John's mind latched onto another oddity, her accent was _off_, it just didn't sound quite right for a Londoner. However for the sake of politeness (something John Watson was renowned for) he shook the offered hand and stepped inside.

The house on the inside was very different to the outside façade and John cursed himself for, as his mother would say, judging a book by its cover. In a way it reminded him of Baker Street, with Victorian pastel wallpapers and nick-knacks all over the place and was surprisingly spacious. The living room ever contained an upright piano which Sherlock gently laid his violin atop. As Sherlock settled himself on the sofa John found an inviting armchair form which he could continue to observe the room. Sophie left momentarily pour the tea but when she returned she gave Sherlock a proper examination.

"You should have told me that your shoulder was hurt." She scolded much to John's surprise, "I wouldn't have made you bring the Stradivarius." Sherlock gave a small shrug, and an even smaller wince.

"How?" John asked baffled.

"Sherlock's right handed but he reached to knock with his left hand and took the mug with his left hand as well, suggesting that he favours his left side, but why? When he sat he showed discomfort, probably in pain, so he was wounded, he prefers the left side but does not avoid the right completely and is only cautious about the upper body, but he used his right hand to support the mug so that was not hurt but moving his arm caused him pain, so there is an injury to the right shoulder." Sherlock gave a small smile, whilst John gave himself a moment to realise that Sophie was essentially another Sherlock. Sherlock's ease around her and the soft smile she held allowed John to relax a little, if Sherlock was comfortable around someone who could deduce than John should trust his judgment.

"That was amazing Miss Lawson." John managed, then after a slight pause, "Would you care to explain how there's another you?" John asked playfully, looking pointedly at Sherlock.

"Sophie's a girl after my own heart." Sherlock replied simply, also relaxing now that he knew John was ok with Sophie and their friendship.

"You're amazing, both of you." John slumped back into the chair deciding it was best to accept and move on, Sophie grinned.

"Thank you, and it's Sophie not 'Miss Lawson" Sophie paused with a wicked smile playing around her lips, "and if you think Sherlock's amazing now, you wait until you get him into bed." With a wink at a slack mouthed, dumbstruck John Sophie exchanged a quick glance with Sherlock and promptly left to get the biscuits.

_TBC  
_


	2. Past and Blast

Part 2: Past and Blast

"_and if you think Sherlock's amazing now, you wait until you get him into bed." With a wink at a slack mouthed, dumbstruck John Sophie exchanged a quick glance with Sherlock and promptly left to get the biscuits._

For a moment John honestly couldn't think of anything to say, he was fairly sure his mouth had dropped open. After all the time he had spent around Sherlock he had assumed that the he had absolutely no interest for that kind of thing. Yet as his gaze darted from Sherlock sat on the sofa, whose expression was neutral to the now empty doorway where Sophie had been standing, all the evidence seemed to point to truth in Sophie's suggestion. Sherlock had referred to her as a _friend_, they clearly knew each other well, were both good at deduction and Sherlock, who usually denied any sort of relationship straight away and said nothing to contradict her claim.

"You..?" John had to practically force the word out of his suddenly tight throat.

"Yes?" Sherlock replied calmly, John in his shocked state missed the questioning tone.

"You and her..?" There was no reply, the clattering in the kitchen sounded alarmingly loud and John turned to try and glimpse Sophie. When he turned back Sherlock suddenly looked alarmingly ill, he had curled up into himself and his longs curls had fallen forward to obscure his face. John worried that his shoulder was playing up again and knelt on the floor to get closer. He was _shaking._

Sherlock was _shaking_.

"Sherlock, are you alright? You're not in pain are you?" Concern took over from disbelief and John reached out but Sherlock finally raised his head before he made contact. He didn't look hurt, quite the opposite; instead he was trying, unsuccessfully, to restrain his laughter. John sighed; sometimes dealing with Sherlock was too much even for him, especially when he pulled something like that.

"I was joking, silly." Sophie announced from the doorway eyebrows raised, holding the biscuit tin proudly. Behind him Sherlock finally gained enough breath to speak.

"I can't believe you actually thought that." Sherlock was now looking at him in incredulity.

"Yes, well, I thought I knew you better than to have missed you having a relationship." John reasoned.

Sherlock gave him a sheepish shrug, which immediately turned into a wince, it seemed laughing had agitated his should after all. John moved to help but Sophie beat him to it, placing the biscuit on the polished wood of the coffee table she sat down gracefully beside Sherlock and gently began to massage the tender muscles. John once again became to feel uneasy. Sherlock had made no mention of Sophie studying or having any knowledge of medical practice, but she seemed to know how to deal with injuries.

After a moment the layers of fabric began to impede Sophie's fingers, in response she reached up and firmly tug on the back of Sherlock's coat. With a slight grunt, the only hint of his continued discomfort the detective allowed her to prise the material off him and watched as she threw it over the edge of the sofa. Somehow it folded neatly over the arm of the chair rather than landing in a mess as it usually did when John tried that sort of thing. Sherlock's hand unconsciously went to the still healing wound and rubbed gently, as though the action could magic away the pain.

"I don't want you running off to play with the police force." Sophie explained as her hands gently moved Sherlock's away from the injury and replaced them with her own, "Tonight you are going to relax, eat and sleep because knowing what you're like you haven't done either for a while." She then decisively but gently pulled off Sherlock's scarf which joined the coat on the end of the sofa. Now that she could see him properly her eyes showed a glint of disapproval.

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused at her sudden change in mood and she drew away.

"You're still too skinny. Bet you'd forget to eat if Dr Watson didn't keep an eye on you." Sophie's reprimand rung with John and the genuine concern in her voice abated his fears for the moment.

"It's John." Both glanced up at his sudden statement, "John, not Dr Watson." Sophie nodded in recognition of the step towards friendship.

"If John didn't keep an eye on you," she amended, continuing her examination of the increasingly uncomfortable Sherlock. A moment passed and she made a decision, reached down and unbuttoned his shirt cuff. Sherlock's expression changed to something darker, something almost _fearful_.

"Oh Sherlock," she murmured in exasperation as she pulled the sleeve up to reveal the multiple nicotine patches plastered to Sherlock's alabaster skin. She didn't need to say anything further, her disappointment was clear. Pulling her gaze away from the evidence of Sherlock's indulgence Sophie continued her glancing examination. John wondered if he should interrupt but it seemed that, for now, Sophie had finished.

They sat in silence for a minute or so as Sophie re-buttoned the cuff of Sherlock's shirt, after which she stood abruptly and sat at the piano, going over a few scales, clearly trying to take her mind off what she had just discovered. John noticed that Sherlock seemed to deflate all of a sudden, as though all of the energy had left him. Clearly Sophie's good opinion meant a lot to him.

"We met when I was eighteen." Sophie spoke up suddenly, now clearly addressing John himself, over the gentle lilting notes her fingers now played. "I suppose you've heard that story. I was never good at holding a job. I was clever enough to get into the top universities but they wouldn't accept me because of a_ chequered_ past," Sophie's nose wrinkled as she wrapped her tongue around the words, "Sherlock offered me a job, a reasonably paid one, with his brother. For a while it worked well but soon I got bored with the routine, I needed change."

"So you came back with an offer." Sherlock continued, "You would get me cases and in return I would let you help out, have some of the credit and the money. Then you vanished, supposedly dead and turned up four years later, older and wiser with a solid income from Mycroft and a new address."

"I had spent those four years working undercover for Mycroft, though I'm afraid I can't go into any more detail than that, he had given me a chance to have a fresh start, to repay some debts and correct mistakes. I kept in contact with Sherlock after I got back but only as a friend, not a partner," Sophie finished. The music stopped rather abruptly as she lifted her head. John's suspicion of her had pretty much vanished when the name of Mycroft Holmes had been mentioned, it meant that Sophie had in some capacity, been a spy.

"I sound old and morbid don't I?" The question was again pointedly not addressed at Sherlock.

"A little bit." John admitted. Sophie sighed.

"I'm supposed to be an optimist. I suppose that shows you how the years change you." Across from John Sherlock smiled sadly into his tea, his eyes cataloguing her every move. Her fingers touched the keys again, this time a fast and uplifting melody began and just as abruptly stopped as she turned and gave a pointed look.

"Turkish March," Sherlock identified before she could ask. He carefully set the mug down and stood slowly, rolling his shoulder to ease the muscles before sitting down elegantly on the piano stool. John stared in shock; this was a development he hadn't known that Sherlock could play the piano as well as the violin. But play Sherlock could, and quite well at that if John's limited musical understanding was any measure, he was playing his assigned part in perfect time with only a few slips. Before long they were all smiling, then laughing and none of them knew why, it felt as though the joyful music had lifted the shadow that had settled over them earlier.

After the brief musical interlude they enjoyed Sophie's homemade pie and snuggled up on the sofa to watch, or shout at in Sherlock's case, the television carefully avoiding any new reports in the hope that Sherlock would stay put. It was strangely relaxing seeing Sherlock so at ease, especially after the difficult months following his return and John found himself quickly becoming very sleepy, probably through a mix of warmth, safety and feeling of _family_ that had developed in the room. Once he had a chance to speak to her alone John found himself warming quickly to Sophie as well. It was as though they were all the siblings that the others had never had.

He must have fallen asleep after, on reflection, one of the most pleasant evenings he had experienced, because he woke the following morning to find Sherlock curled up, also asleep, on the sofa with the smaller form of Sophie squeezed in the gaps between Sherlock and the sofa. John had somehow ended up stretched across the other, smaller sofa with a blanket laid across him. Stretching, he tried to get up without waking his light sleeper of a flatmate but it didn't work.

"Morning John," Sherlock muttered, his voice muffled by Sophie's hair, a few locks of which wafted as they were disturbed.

"Good morning Sherlock." John replied as he stood to stretch his aching back.

"Good morning yourself John," Sophie added, woken by Sherlock's disturbance of her hair and gave a small noise of annoyance as she found herself squashed beneath the detectives taller frame.

"Morning to you to Sophie," he responded part politely part sarcastically, heading towards the kitchen to boil the kettle, from behind him muffled voices drifted through.

"Morning Sophie," Sherlock tried to stretch out but it was impossible with Sophie's heavy weight under him, restricting his movement, his shoulder stiff and aching.

"Morning Sherlock," she replied, "would you mind getting off or do you want me to move?"

"If you wouldn't mind." John chuckled at the comedy of the conversation, if it could be called that and left the two friends to try and detangle themselves from each other and the sofa. He heard the rustling of fabric as they struggled to push the other off and a slight 'oomph' as one of them hit the floor with a thud.

"Sherlock, that's cheating!" Using his growing deducting skills John decided that it had been Sophie that lost.

"Sorry, would you like a hand up?" Another change, Sherlock rarely apologised.

"Yes please, ouch!"

"Are you alright?"

"Everything's aching and you've just added some extra bruises to the collection."

"You should have gone to sleep somewhere else then." That statement was Sherlock through and through. John thought it best to break them up before an actual fistfight began and strolled into the lounge with enough tea and paracetamol to keep them both quiet. They seemed enough like a brother and sister squabbling as it was, they didn't need any more encouragement.

When Sherlock had settled down John took his time to analyse his health. The detective looked rested and alert, the shadows that normally lay beneath haunted eyes were gone, which meant that not only had Sherlock escaped the nightmares he had also gotten a decent amount of sleep, which was a massive improvement.

"Will you be staying?" Sophie's question broke them out of their relaxed haze and Sherlock tensed immediately, John knew that he disliked being away from the familiarity of 221B for long periods of time, he suspected that Sherlock used the flat as proof that he wasn't dreaming his return from some cold hotel room in Europe.

"For a bit," John replied when Sherlock remained silent, "we have to get back later today." Across from him, Sherlock slowly relaxed again, John felt slightly flattered that Sherlock trusted him to make the call.

If she was surprise, Sophie didn't show it and spent the morning teaching John to play a few simple pieces on the piano under Sherlock's watchful and often amused eyes. The detective had practically melted into the soft furnishings of the sofa, a cup of tea cradled in one hand and his violin bow held lightly in the other. Rarely did John see the detective so motionless, so calm, so perfectly at peace with himself. He looked truly content to just sit there and watch his friends, interact with each other until sleep claimed him for a little while. It took John a moment to recognise the warm sensation that spread through him at the sight for what is was. He knew then would do almost anything for Sherlock to be like this more of the time, to provide this environment for the man he loved as a brother.

By lunchtime Sherlock had been gently roused from his sleep, both Sophie and John ignoring the embarrassed flush that spread across his cheeks for having fallen back into the world of slumber, and forced to eat second helpings because he was so skinny that Sophie apparently got a paper cut from hugging him.

Following a long debate on the subject IQ, John now watched as the pair tried to settle the dispute over intelligence with a game of chess set up on the coffee table, it was his turn to melt into the sofa and smile with affection when Sophie ruffled Sherlock's curls and Sherlock pouted in the most adorable manner.

Unfortunately John's moment of peace and quiet was rudely interrupted when an explosion tore through the windows and flung them all to the floor.


	3. Blame and Flame

Part 3: Blame and Flame

"_Unfortunately John's moment of peace and quiet was rudely interrupted when an explosion tore through the windows and flung them all to the floor."_

John was the first to wake.

His ears rang with endless high-pitched noise and everything else sounded muffled and out of place. A quick self-examination told John that he had been lucky, his sharp reactions and his position far from the window and left him mostly unharmed, only a blow to the head by a piece of debris had caused his momentary unconsciousness, but it had left no concussion, just a nasty bruise. The ringing in his ears began to fade.

Coughing against the smoke and dust that was settling he lifted his head and instantly spotted Sherlock and Sophie, both completely still and both covered in the remains of the house across the street and Sophie's now destroyed front wall. From his position he could see that Sherlock had somehow protected Sophie with his body by ending up on top of her, a reaction that years of surviving on the run had honed. His medical mind reluctantly informed him that Sherlock would have sustained the worst injuries but he had kept his distanced because he knew that he wouldn't be able to stand seeing Sherlock suffer further.

"Sherlock can you hear me?" He called, knowing that the priority was to see if either slumped figure was alert.

"John, is that you?" The reply came after a moment's pause, weak and coughing but definitely not a man's voice. From beneath Sherlock's still form Sophie shifted slightly.

"Yes, are you alright?" John asked, scrambling over to the pair now that he could properly see them and could be fairly sure that the structure of the building was safe. As his hearing finally cleared he heard the sirens approaching and knew that he couldn't have been out for long.

"Apart from the weight of Sherlock sitting on my lungs stopping me breathing I'm fine." was Sophie's reply, tainted with both sarcasm and concern as she tried to shift from underneath the dead weight. Moments later Sherlock gave a groan as the movement woke him. Instantly they both turned, or in Sophie's case tried to trapped as she was, towards the injured man.

"Sherlock, talk to me, are you hurt?" John instinctively took charge as he heard the ambulance stop outside.

"I'm fine," was the mumbled reply, which alarmingly drifted away into nothingness.

"No you're not," John reprimanded, laying a firm grip on Sherlock to rouse him, "now tell me everything, you need to stay awake." John insisted as, keeping his grip on Sherlock, he carefully pulled some of the debris away from the pair, allowing Sophie to wriggle out, almost unhurt apart from minor scratches, from beneath the consulting detective. Sophie's eyes drifted over the remains of her lounge with an emptiness that John immediately attributed to shock.

"Shoulder, ribs," Sherlock mumbled, eyes squeezed shut, a sharp cough and an even sharper breath, "can't feel my leg." He heard the intake of breath from Sophie behind him as Sherlock's words drew her from the numbness, and really hoped that Sherlock couldn't feel the appendage because the debris was placing pressure and interrupting the blood flow rather than something more serious.

Underneath his reassuring hands John could feel Sherlock starting to panic, breaths were coming quicker and sharper, his muscles tensing. John had helped Sherlock through enough anxiety attacks and flashbacks to recognise the signs.

"Try to take deep breaths, slowly, that's it, breathe with me, there's not much smoke and you're nearly free, you're safe with me." John kept up his flow of words; eyes locked with Sherlock's until the fireman dug him free and allowed him to transfer his iron grip to John's hand as the paramedics checked him over and then helped him sit up.

The brief examinations confirmed John's conclusion that they were all essentially fine, Sherlock had a few cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder which were efficiently tended to once Sherlock had calmed down enough to be helped to the ambulance, although Sherlock made John swear that he wouldn't tell anyone abut how he had protested much like a little girl and made a rather high-pitched squeak when, without warning, the paramedic skilfully manipulated his shoulder back into place.

By the time Lestrade arrived they were all sat on the back of the ambulance under the stern gaze of the senior paramedic. They had been forced to share two horrendously orange shock blankets between them for warmth because the bitter wind wasn't very nice when you only had one tattered layer on. Sherlock's arm, now wrapped in a sling which John knew would be discarded as soon as humanly possible, was tucked firmly into the folds of the blanket.

When he noticed that Sherlock's other hand was entwined with Sophie's, carefully hidden beneath the layers of vibrant orange John snaked his own hand through the mess of limbs until he had found the others and created a strange, but comforting, three way clasp.

Sherlock gave him a thankful look as Sophie's shivering faded between their joint comfort and when Sherlock turned away John followed his friend's keen eyes across the scene of smoking buildings and flashing lights to find Lestrade shouting something to a particularly new and incompetent member of the force.

John knew the same question was on all their minds. Who could have caused this? He had no doubt it was deliberate, the house opposite where the bomb was placed had been empty for weeks and in the middle of the working day the entire street was practically empty, which made them the only possible targets.

"I'll need statements tomorrow of course." Lestrade said once they had been given the all clear. Lestrade's concern and suspicion radiated from him, his gaze flitting to Sherlock too often to hide his worry as he led them towards an unmarked car that John recognised as Lestrade's own. Lestrade held the door as they slid inside the back and insisted that Sherlock take the passenger seat. Sherlock protested until Lestrade took hold of him and gave him a glare that subdued even Sherlock's force of will after which he helped the younger man, a little gingerly and cautious of his injuries, into the car.

John was glad that Sherlock had Greg, especially at time like this. Greg was the port in the storm that Sherlock clung to when nothing made sense and the firm fatherly hand that he often needed to push him in the right direction. Recently Greg Lestrade had grown even closer to his protégé and as he pulled away he began to give them the details he had amassed to give Sherlock something to work with, rather than the lack of data that he hated so much. John could see Sherlock's mind turning ideas and theories over already.

By the time they reached 221B Baker Street it was nearly midnight. Mrs. Hudson greeted them with all with a hug and bustled worriedly around the kitchen, boiling the kettle whilst they pulled on jumpers that she had miraculously produced. Sherlock sat on his usual chair and closed his eyes, clearly musing something over.

"Are you alright John?" Sophie spoke up suddenly from her curled up position on their battered settee, her voice nearly made him jump as she had been strangely quiet since the explosion.

"I'm fine," and he was, fighting a war did strange things to your head, "what about you?"

"I keep thinking that at least my house is relatively intact unlike that poor person across the road. Is that bad?" John shook his head.

"You need time to let everything sink in." Sophie nodded distractedly. John could see her struggling to make any sort of decisions as the events of the evening had thrown her into disarray. After a moment she stood and headed towards where Sherlock was perched on his chair and, much to John's surprise at both her boldness and Sherlock's willingness, managed to squeeze herself in-between Sherlock and the arm the chair, curving herself into the detective's protective warmth.

"The bomber made sure they were out." Sherlock announced quietly, "Someone was trying to give me a message, a warning. They needed my attention."

"Well they certainly got it." Sophie muttered bitterly shifting as Sherlock moved over slightly to accommodate her.

"Why target us now though? I destroyed the entire network that much I'm certain of, there's a chance the bomber is linked of course but why target us there when the media has ensured that everyone knows where we live?" For several minutes whilst Mrs Hudson clattered around making tea John listened to Sherlock's rambling.

Sophie, lulled by Sherlock's voice vibrating in his chest, fell asleep against him.

Sherlock stayed up all night, long after John had downed his tea and headed off to bed, keeping himself alert with a probably unhealthy mixture of nicotine and caffeine, party to think through theories, partly in an attempt to ward off any potential attackers. Having successfully relocated Sophie to his rarely-used bed without waking her he had spent the six hours before dawn working through the various theories he had formed from Lestrade's information and trying to ignore the newly-woken emotions within him.

Seeing Sophie after so long, sleeping peacefully in his bed had reminded him of the years they had spent working together, often ending up in each other's beds out of convenience. He wouldn't deny that he loved Sophie. Despite what some people seemed to think Sherlock loved very easily and fiercely and years of having his heart broken had hardened his façade. He loved all his friends, just not in a romantic way. Sophie in particular he saw as the sister he had always wanted. They shared a connection that went deeper than friendship, the spark that he and Mycroft were now rekindling.

Distracted thinking left Sherlock just as oblivious to the case the following morning and he was distressed because the one time it really mattered to him that his friends were safe and they had caught the attacker, his mind had failed him.

Sherlock was jolted out of his thoughts by the sound of Sophie bounding down the stairs from his room, hair mussed and bleary-eyed she stumbled through to the kitchen, somehow instinctively knowing where the safe mugs were and which tin of tea bags actually contained tea.

"Any luck?" The question was paired with an offered mug of tea which he eagerly reached for; already he could feel his mind craving rest.

"Not yet." Sherlock's subdued answer spoke volumes and Sophie sank down onto the sofa next to him, the folds of his stolen silk dressing gown caressing her drowsy form.

Suddenly he was engulfed in a hug, the unexpected movement made him flinch away but when her hold persisted he relaxed, allowing her hand to card through his tangled locks in affection. The action was calming on his overstretched mind and he found himself sinking into the embrace.

"You need to rest Sherlock." Sophie's voice was not intended as a suggestion, her reprimand was clear, "You can't expect your mind to work at full speed when you've kept it whirring for twenty four hours straight."

"Need to solve the case." Sherlock mumbled into the shoulder his face had ended up nuzzled.

"The case can wait another few hours. It's not going anywhere."

"That's what I'm worried about…" Sophie frowned and turned her gaze to Sherlock's head but found his eyes closed and his features relaxed, the gentle sound of her heartbeat and her attention to his hair had nudged him the final step into sleep.

John awoke far later than he normally would, having slept right through his alarm. Thankfully Sherlock had everything sorted and had already informed the surgery that he was taking the day off so when he called he was firmly informed that he was on no accounts allowed to go to work, the effort Sherlock had gone to was warming.

Instead when he came down he found an incredibly heart-warming scene, Sherlock was laid fast asleep, head in Sophie's lap, her hand idly stroking his inky curls. It was rare to see Sherlock asleep he seemed so much more innocent.

The peace was rudely interrupted by the doorbell and Sherlock stirred at the noise. Realising that considering his friends clothing he was the best dressed to answer he headed down, hearing the sleepy pair moving around in the flat. The doorbell rang again, more insistently this time and when he opened it he was surprised to find Mycroft stood on the other side, looking rumpled and worried.

"Sherlock, how is he?" John opened to door to let Mycroft in. Since Sherlock's return the brothers had become closer and more willing to show concern for each other.

"He's alright Mike." Mycroft and John had also grown a lot closer, leaning on each other once they had got past the bitterness because neither of them coped well in a world without Sherlock. In time, John had adopted the shorter version of Mycroft's name.

"And you, Sophie?"

"I've had far worse, Sophie seems to be coping." Mycroft nodded, looking uneasy and out of place, John realised he was blocking the doorway and moved back to allow the other man entrance.

Mycroft climbed up to Sherlock's flat slightly faster than normal and made a beeline towards his brother who was stood at the window nursing a steaming mug of coffee to help him wake up. Sherlock turned at the noise and found himself engulfed in his brother's embrace, the other occupants stayed silent, allowing the pair this brief moment of comfort. Both had a feeling that things could only get worse.

Separating, the Holmes brothers turned their minds to the problem at hand, settling down opposite each other and comparing notes over the table. Yet neither had anything definitive and John could see it was troubling them, especially Sherlock.

"So basically, we have nothing." Sophie spoke up from where she was leaning against the fireplace.

"At the moment, yes, we have nothing." Mycroft replied with an exasperated sigh, massaging his forehead. John was concerned, Mycroft, with all his resources had never drawn a blank before.

"Mike?" Sherlock sounded scared, young.

"It's ok Lock, we'll find out who did this, I promise you that."


	4. Chapter 4 Preview

**A/N **

**First of all, I'm really sorry about the massive update breaks. I've been rewritting the story because I had some new ideas following Reichenbach. But anyway, the first three chapters have been re-written and below is a peek of what to expect in Chapter 4 which will be up sometime next week. Enjoy!**

**Ash to Dust**

Part 4: Fazed and Blazed

Anyway: coming up.

"Sophia Lawson you are under arrest on suspicion of terrorist activites and intent to murder."

"Lestrade, what on earth is the meaning of this?" Lestrade turned apologetic eyes towards the detective and the doctor, he genuinely looked remorseful.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but the only person with fingerprints in the house that bomb went off in was Sophia Lawson and considering her, connections, we have reason to believe you were then intended victim."

Behind them, Sophie's silence spoke volumes.


End file.
